


Do You Remember?

by bronweathanharthad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 07:27:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6364855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronweathanharthad/pseuds/bronweathanharthad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with the taste of strawberries. All else fades too quickly. (TW: food mention)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Remember?

Spring days were the first to go.

    The late winter sun offered little warmth, and as Frodo, Sam, and Sméagol crossed into Minas Morgul, the Sun stayed in Gondor. The unearthly green of the Witch-King’s tower became their sole source of light as they climbed, filling the hobbits with unnatural chill and uneasy minds.

    Despite the unsettling air, Frodo and Sam fell asleep quickly, their bodies too weary to carry them farther.

    As Frodo slumbered with his head in Sam’s lap, he dreamed of springtime in the Shire. He dreamed of sunlight’s kiss, of laughing children and blooming flowers.

    His mother took him to a strawberry field, offering him permission to eat one strawberry fresh from the bush. He plucked one that looked perfectly fresh, examining it carefully before taking a bite. The taste immediately caressed his tongue, and he closed his eyes as he savored it – perfectly sweet, perfectly soft.

    When his eyes opened, he tried to recall his dreams. He knew he dreamed of summer, but he could not remember what he saw. There was something about a field of berries. He just tasted one. What was its flavor? Its texture? Was it sweet? Sour? Soft? Firm? He gave himself a headache trying to recall it, and he tried to no avail.

 

He soon struggled to recollect what any kind of food tasted like. First he lost berries, then all fruits, then all vegetables. He remembered the savory taste of Sam’s coney stew, but soon that, too, was lost to him.

    How could this be happening? He used to love food. He used to frequent the Green Dragon and the Ivy Bush sometimes went all the way to the Bird and Baby. Like any respectable hobbit, he started friendships and strengthened bonds over food. It was as routine in his life as getting dressed or sleeping. How could he lose it this quickly?

    He tried to hold onto Merry and Pippin’s voices – their accents, their laughter, and their singing. He had to remember their singing. But he couldn’t remember; he simply _couldn’t_.

    What was wrong with him? How could he forget his two best friends’ voices?

    And they could very well be dead by now, dead because of him. He would never see or hear them again, whether they lived or died. He owed it to them to remember them until the very end. They were his friends, who supported him and worried over him and volunteered to accompany him, no matter what the danger. And he was failing them.

 

Frodo lay vulnerable on the cold floor of Cirith Ungol, fighting the desire to shiver out of fear of his captors’ wrath and longing to cry.

    All these months of toiling, all the suffering he and his fellows endured – and for what? The Ring would surely be in Sauron’s grasp soon, and everyone with the courage to resist him would soon die horribly. If Sauron had any mercy, he would kill Frodo as well.

    _Merry, Pippin – I am sorry. I should never have allowed you to endanger yourselves. Sam, I am sorry. What good has come from your devotion? Only a master who failed at the one task that he could not fail. Boromir, I am sorry. Your death will be in vain. Gandalf, Bilbo, I am sorry. I have squandered your love. Gandalf, you should not have died for me._

    The Shire would surely fall. It might be the hardest hit. Those poor folk would never know what hit them. They wouldn’t know that one of their own was to blame, and maybe it was better that they didn’t.

    He racked his mind trying to conjure some image of home. He tried to remember the babbling of the creek in the Eastfarthing Woods, the roar of the Brandywine after a rainstorm, the coolness of the grass beneath his feet. Nothing.

    He became so desperate that he searched for memories from the darkest days of his life. He tried to find his grandfather telling him that his parents had drowned. Watching as boaters retrieved their bodies. Even the simple image of his parents’ graves. Nothing.

    Despair crushed him. A lump grew in his throat until it was nigh impossible to breathe. Tears stung his eyes and finally fell, and he choked back sobs, only sniffling weakly as the tears fell.

    In the eerie quiet, he thought he heard someone singing. It gradually became clearer, and as he heard the words he immediately knew it was Sam. And he realized that he still had some memories of music. That newfound knowledge was not nearly enough to ease his despair, but at least he had not yet lost everything.

 

Frodo and Sam only just crossed into Mordor, and already the darkness lay heavy on their hearts.

    Frodo wondered if Sam had lost any memories during his time as Ring-bearer, but he was scared to ask. There was no need to further worry Sam, and if Sam had forgotten things, then what hope was there for Frodo?

    As they plodded on, Frodo mentally recited the names of his friends, loved ones, and companions, trying to recall one thing about them.

    He remembered how Boromir held him back as Frodo attempted to run to Gandalf’s aid, but he couldn’t remember the feeling of Boromir’s hands. Nor could he hear his own anguished cries as Gandalf fell.

    He remembered that Legolas told him stories about Mirkwood, but he only remembered vague details about the stories. He knew that Gimli shared some of Gloin’s memories from the journey to reclaim Erebor, but he recollected nothing, not even Gloin’s praise of Bilbo’s character.

    Merry and Pippin’s faces were all that he had left. At least he still had their smiles.

    Frodo remembered his cautious trust as Aragorn led the hobbits to Rivendell, and he remembered Aragorn’s nurturing nature. He saw to Frodo’s wounds after Moria, mild though they were, and he resisted the Ring even after Boromir fell under its sway. But that was it.

    He could not remember the shy gardener that Sam was before the Quest. Nor could he see when Sam nearly drowned himself pursuing his master. If it weren’t for Sam’s company, Frodo wondered how long it would be before he forgot Sam’s face.

    He remembered that Gandalf loved him. He remembered Gandalf’s promise to help him bear the Ring, and he remembered the endless moments of watching him fall. Memories of Gandalf’s fireworks had long since abandoned Frodo, but in the desolation of Mordor he wished more than ever that he could recall them.

    Thank the Valar, he still remembered Bilbo’s voice. He couldn’t make out specific words, but he remembered the warmth, the kindness, and the honesty in his voice.

 

“Don’t you know we’re at war?” the Orc shouted.

    The hobbits’ hearts sank. If anyone in the Fellowship remained, they would certainly be fighting in this war, and they may die – or worse – if Frodo and Sam couldn’t make it to Mount Doom.

    Their kinsmen. Still so young, still so innocent. They couldn’t let Merry and Pippin die. They would never forgive themselves if anything befell them.

    They had to break free from the company. The sooner they escaped, the sooner they would reach Mount Doom, and the sooner Merry and Pippin would be safe.

    As the Orc-company lumbered towards the Black Gate, Sam silently tried to figure out how they could slip away without anyone noticing. They were in the middle of the line, with seemingly endless Orcs towering above them, not to mention the patrol outside the formation. As far as Sam could tell, it would be near impossible to avoid being seen.

    Frodo hoped the company would soon come to a halt. Could this army possibly make its way all the way to the Gate without rest? He doubted that he could.

    What would Merry suggest? He had always been surprisingly gifted at getting out of trouble. And there was that deep-in-thought, do-not-disturb expression on his face when he strategized. That expression, as far as Frodo could tell, was unique to Merry.

    Frodo tried to visualize it – the unfocused eyes, the nearly quivering chin, the crinkled eyebrows – but found himself unable to remember it. In fact, he couldn’t visualize any of Merry’s face – not the sand-colored hair, nor the kindly blue eyes, nor the smile that made everyone feel at ease.

    “Company, halt!”

    Frodo nearly collided with the Orc in front of him as he returned to the present. Remembering where he was, he felt Sauron’s power much greater than before. The sides of his neck were killing him, and he felt his knees buckling, unable to bear the sudden weight.

    He begged for Sam’s help as he sank to the ground. Now that all of his memories of his dear friends had abandoned him, Frodo felt hopelessly overwhelmed by his burden.

 

Having finally escaped their captors, the hobbits plodded towards Mount Doom, moving as quickly as their aching bodies and the oppressive fumes would allow.

    Frodo desperately – stubbornly – tried to retain his memories of Bilbo, vague as they were. They were all he had left. He knew he was going mad already and feared what would become if he lost what little he had left.

    Frodo and Sam took a quick nap once they were well away from Mordor’s only road. When Frodo woke up, Bilbo’s voice was gone, replaced with Sauron’s cruel, mocking voice.

    He repeated details of Bilbo’s face over and over again. Fair-skinned, though not pale. Mostly silver hair with some lingering brown streaks, though his hair had since become fully white. Kindly, vibrant brown eyes. And a warm, truly loving smile.

    He blinked once, and the smile was gone. He blinked again, and nothing remained.

    _No. No, no, no._

    Frantically Frodo ransacked his mind, searching the darkness for some sign, any sign, of Bilbo’s presence. He was only hiding. He had to be somewhere; he just wasn’t looking hard enough.

    Instead he found laughter – harsh, grating laughter mingled with a roaring inferno.

    _You can’t do this to me! You can’t take him from me! We still have so far to go!_

_Bilbo! Bilbo, where are you?_

    The laughter was gone. Only cold, deathly silence remained.

    The weight of the world crashed on top of him. Whatever hope he had left abandoned him completely. Sauron filled every crevice of his mind. Sauron had killed all of Frodo’s memories, and Sauron’s wrath was massive, so impossibly massive.

    Frodo physically could not take another step. He collapsed, clinging to a rock as he hit the ground. Unable to cry, he could only gasp for air.

    “I c—I can’t—I can’t manage the Ring, Sam. It—it—it’s such a weight to carry, it—such a weight.”


End file.
